Attaroa looked at Epadoa with obvious pride. “Epadoa discovered how much horses like salt. She makes the women save the water they pass and uses it to lead the horses along. My hunters are my wolves,” Attaroa said, smiling in the direction of the women with spears who had gathered around.
They took evident pleasure in her praise, standing taller as she spoke. Jondalar hadn’t paid much attention to their clothing before, but now he realized that all of the hunters wore something that came from a wolf. Most of them had a fringe of wolf fur around their hoods and at least one wolf tooth, but often more, dangling around their necks. Some of them also had a fringe of wolf fur around the cuffs of their parkas, or the hem, or both, plus additional decorative panels. Epadoa’s hood was entirely wolf fur, with a portion of a wolf’s head, with fangs bared, decorating the top. Both the hem and cuffs of her parka were fringed, wolf paws hung down from her shoulders in front, and a bushy tail hung behind from a center panel of wolf skin.
“Their spears are their fangs, they kill in a pack, and bring the food back. Their feet are their paws, they run steady all day, and go a long way,” Attaroa said in a rhythmic meter that he felt sure had been repeated many times. “Epadoa is their leader, Zelandonii. I wouldn’t try to outsmart her. She is very clever.”
“I’m sure she is,” Jondalar said, feeling outnumbered. But he also couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration for what they had accomplished, starting with so little knowledge. “It just seems such a waste to have men sitting idle when they could be contributing, too, helping to hunt, helping to gather food, making tools. Then the women alone wouldn’t have to be working so hard. I’m not saying women cannot do it, but why should they have to do it all, for both men and women?”
Attaroa laughed, the harsh, demented laugh that gave him a chill. “I have wondered the same thing. Women are the ones who produce new life; why do we need men at all? Some of the women don’t want to give men up yet, but what good are they? For Pleasures? It’s men who get the Pleasure. Here we don’t worry about giving men Pleasures any more. Instead of sharing a hearth with a man, I have put women together. They share the work, they help each other with their children,
they understand each other. When there are no men around, the Mother will have to mix the spirits of women, and only female children will be born.”
Would it work? Jondalar wondered. S’Amodun had said that very few babies had been born in the last few years. Suddenly he remembered Ayla’s idea that it was the Pleasures that men and women shared that started new life growing inside a woman. Attaroa had kept the women and men separated. Could that be why there were so few babies?
“How many children have been born?” he asked, out of curiosity.
“Not many, but some, and where there are some, there can be more.”
“Have they all been girls?” he asked then.
“The men are still too close. It confuses the Mother. Soon enough all the men will be gone; then we will see how many boy babies are born,” Attaroa said.
“Or how many babies are born at all,” Jondalar said. “The Great Earth Mother made both women and men, and like Her, women are blessed to give birth to both male and female, but it is the Mother Who decides which man’s spirit is mingled with the woman’s. It is always a man’s spirit. Do you really think you can alter what She has ordained?”
“Don’t try to tell me what the Mother will do! You are not a woman, Zelandonii,” she said contemptuously. “You just don’t like to be told how worthless you are, or perhaps you don’t want to give up your Pleasures. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Suddenly Attaroa changed her tone, affecting a purr of attraction. “Do you want Pleasures, Zelandonii? If you will not fight me, what will you do to gain your freedom? Ah, I know! Pleasures. For such a strong, handsome man, Attaroa might be willing to give you Pleasures. But can you give Attaroa Pleasures?”
S’Armuna’s change to speaking about the woman, rather than as her, made him suddenly aware that all the words he had heard had been translated. It was one thing to speak as the voice of Attaroa the head-woman, it was quite another to speak as the voice of Attaroa the woman. S’Armuna could translate the words; she just couldn’t take on the intimate persona of the woman. As S’Armuna continued to translate, Jondalar heard both of them.
“So tall, so fair, so perfect, he could be the mate of the Mother Herself. Look, he is even taller than Attaroa, and not many men are. You have given many women Pleasure, haven’t you? One smile from the big, tall, handsome man with his blue, blue eyes and women clamor to climb into his furs. Do you Pleasure them all, Zelandonii man?”
Jondalar refused to answer. Yes, there was once a time when he
enjoyed Pleasuring many women, but now he only wanted Ayla. A wrenching pain of grief threatened to overcome him. What would he do without her? Did it matter if he lived or died?
“Come, Zelandonii, if you give Attaroa great pleasure, you can have your freedom. Attaroa knows you can do it.” The tall, attractive head-woman walked seductively toward him. “See? Attaroa will give herself to you. Show everyone how a strong man gives a woman Pleasures. Share the Gift of Muna, the Great Earth Mother, with Attaroa, Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”
Attaroa put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Jondalar did not respond. She tried to kiss him, but he was too tall for her, and he would not bend down. She was not used to a man who was taller; it wasn’t often that she had to reach up to a man, especially one she could not bend. It made her feel foolish and flamed her anger.
“Zelandonii! I am willing to couple with you, and give you a chance for your freedom!”
“I won’t share the Mother’s Gift of Pleasures under these circumstances,” Jondalar said. His quiet, controlled voice belied his great anger, but did not hide it. How did she dare to insult the Mother like that? “The Gift is sacred, meant to be shared with willingness and joy. Coupling like this would be contemptuous of the Mother. It would defile Her Gift and anger Her just as much as taking a woman against her will. I choose the woman I want to couple with, and I have no desire to share Her Gift with you, Attaroa.”
Jondalar might have responded to Attaroa’s invitation, but he knew it was not genuine. He was an exciting, handsome man to most women. He had gained skill at pleasing them, and experience in the ways of mutual attraction and invitation. For all her sinuous walking, there was no warmth to Attaroa, and she gave him no spark of desire. He sensed that even if he had tried, he could not have pleased her.
But Attaroa looked stunned when she heard the translation. Most men had been more than willing to share the Gift of Pleasures with the handsome woman to gain their freedom. Visitors unfortunate enough to pass through her territory and get caught by her hunters had usually jumped at the chance to get away from the Wolf Women of the S’Armunai so easily. Though some had hesitated, doubtful and wondering what she was up to, none had ever refused her outright. They soon found out they were right to doubt.
“You refuse…” the headwoman sputtered, unbelieving. The translation was spoken without feeling, but her reaction was clear enough. “You refuse Attaroa. How dare you refuse!” she screamed, then turned to her Wolf Women. “Strip him and tie him to the practice target.”
That had been her intention all along, just not so soon. She had
wanted Jondalar to keep her occupied through the whole long, dreary winter. She enjoyed tantalizing men with promises of freedom in exchange for Pleasures. To her, it was the height of irony. From that point, she led them into further acts of humiliation or degradation, and she usually managed to get them to do whatever she wanted before she was ready to play her final game. They would even strip themselves when she told them she would let them go if they did, hoping it would please her enough.
But no man could give Attaroa Pleasure. She had been used badly when she was a girl, and she had looked forward to mating the powerful leader of another group. Then she discovered that the man she had joined with was worse than the situation she had left behind. His Pleasures were always done with painful beatings and humiliation, until she finally rebelled and caused his painful, humiliating death. But she had learned her lesson too well. Warped by the cruelty she received, she could not feel Pleasure without causing pain. Attaroa cared little for sharing the Mother’s Gift with men, or even women. She gave herself Pleasures watching men die slow and painful deaths.
When there was a long time between visitors, Attaroa had even played with S’Armunai men, but after the first two or three fell to her “Pleasures,” they knew her game and would not play it. They just pleaded for their lives. She usually, but not always, gave in to those who had a woman to plead their case. Some of the women were not as cooperative—they didn’t understand it was for them that she needed to eliminate men—but they could usually be controlled through the males to whom they were tied, so she kept them alive.
Travelers ordinarily came during the warmer season. People seldom traveled very far in the cold of winter, especially those on a Journey, and there had been fewer travelers lately, none the previous summer. A few men, by a lucky fluke, managed to escape, and some women ran away. They warned others. Most people who heard the stories passed them on as rumors, or fantastic tales of storytellers, but the rumors of the vicious Wolf Women had been growing, and people were staying away.
Attaroa had been delighted when Jondalar was brought back, but he turned out to be worse than one of her own men. He wouldn’t go along with her game, and he didn’t even give her the satisfaction of watching him plead. If he had, she might have even let him live a little longer, just to savor the pleasure of seeing him bend to her will.
At her command, Attaroa’s Wolf Women rushed Jondalar. He swung out wildly, knocking aside spears and landing hard blows that would have telling aftereffects. His struggles to get free were almost successful, but he was eventually overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. He continued to fight while they cut the lashing closures of his tunic and
trousers to strip him of his clothes. But they expected it and held sharp blades to his neck.
After they tore off his tunic and bared his chest, they tied his hands together with a length of slack rope between them, then lifted him up and hung him with his hands over his head from the high peg on the target post. He kicked while they pulled off his boots and trousers, landing a few strong blows that would leave bruises, but all his resistance only served to make the women want to get back at him. And they knew they could.
Once he was hanging naked from the post, they all stood back and looked him over with self-satisfied smirks, pleased with themselves. Big and strong as he was, his fighting had done him no good. Jondalar’s toes touched the ground, but just barely, and it was clear that most men would have dangled there. It gave him some slight feeling of security to touch the earth, and he sent a vague, unvoiced appeal to the Great Earth Mother to somehow deliver him from this unexpected and fearful predicament.
Attaroa was interested in the massive scar on his upper thigh and groin. It had healed well. He had given no hint that he had sustained such a serious injury no limping or favoring of that leg. If he was that strong, perhaps he would last longer than most. He might give her some enjoyment yet. She smiled at the thought.
Attaroa’s detached appraisal gave Jondalar second thoughts. He felt a breeze raise goose bumps, and he shivered, but not only with the cold. When he looked up, he saw Attaroa smiling at him. Her face was flushed and her breathing fast; she looked pleased and strangely sensual. Her enjoyment was always greater if the man she Pleasured herself with was handsome. Attracted in her own way to the tall man with the unconscious charisma, she anticipated making this one last as long as possible.
He looked across at the fence made of poles, and he knew the men were watching through the cracks. He wondered why they hadn’t warned him. It was obviously not the first time something like this had happened. Would it have done any good if they had? Would he have just anticipated with fear? Perhaps they thought he would be better off not knowing.
In truth, some of the men had talked about it. They all liked the Zelandonii and admired his toolmaking skills. With the sharp knives and tools that were his legacy, they each hoped they might find an opportunity to break away They would always remember him for that, but each of them knew in his heart that if there was too long a time between visitors, Attaroa was likely to hang one of them from a target post. A couple of them had already been strung up once, and they knew that their
abject pleadings would probably not move her to delay her deadly game again. They secretly cheered his refusal to give in to her demands, but they were afraid that any noise would call attention to themselves. Instead they watched in silence as the familiar scene unfolded, each of them feeling compassion and fear and a small stab of shame.
Not only her Wolf Women, but all the women of the Camp were expected to bear witness to the man’s ordeal. Most of them hated to watch, but they feared Attaroa, even her hunters. They stood as far back as they dared. It made some of them sick, but if they did not appear, then any man they had spoken up for in the past was the next one chosen. Some women had tried to run away, and a few had managed it, but most were caught and brought back. If there were men in the Holding they cared about—mates, brothers, sons—as punishment, the women were made to watch them suffer days in the cage without food or water. And occasionally, though rarely, they were put in the cage themselves.
The women with boys were particularly fearful, not knowing what would become of their sons, especially after what she had done to Ode-van and Ardoban, but the women who feared the most were the two with infants and the one who was pregnant. Attaroa was delighted with them, gave them special treats and asked after their welfare, but they each harbored a guilty secret and were afraid that if she ever found out, they would end up hanging from the target posts.